


Wasted Days

by larshoneytoasted



Category: Social Network (2010)
Genre: M/M, eisenfeld, jewnicorn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-16 09:54:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/860800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larshoneytoasted/pseuds/larshoneytoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU / one-shot / Eduardo's POV. Two years after Eduardo Saverin left the offices of Facebook, he spiraled into the world of drug dealing to numb the memories of the friend who let him go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wasted Days

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I have written many a Mark x Wardo fanfic but never fully finished or published them, let alone written an AU. Dedicated to Savs for the inspiration and Roman for reading before hand.

You would think I was better than this. If my father knew, he’d probably never speak to me again. If my mother knew, she’d probably cry. But when the going gets tough, you can’t just give up. That’s something my father taught me. He’d slap my back and go, “Filho, as you get older, you will one day feel like you have hit bottom. But you are a Saverin, and Saverins never give up, and even at their lowest points, they are still the strongest.” That rings in my head as I’m hunched over my desk, the dusty bulb burning soft amber over my trembling fingers that push green buds into small clear bags, and illuminates the smoke that’s curling from the end of my cigarette.

It’s a nasty habit, but it helps my image. You see, not many people are gonna trust a clean cut looking guy in a dark-blue button down selling drugs because they think he’s gonna rip you off. But what they don’t know is that business majors make the best dealers because they’re gonna make the best profit and they’re gonna give you the bang for your buck. Or that’s what we tell them anyway. Like they’re even going to know you’re lying when they’re sleep deprived and looking for something that’s gonna keep them up for another ten hours, or twenty bucks worth of weed that’s finally going to make them eat after four days of starving themselves.

To them, I’m a god. And that’s more than he ever made me feel.

I find it funny that even after two years of absence I can still hear his voice. I’ve tried to get over him – meet new people, start new projects – but it all boils down to me becoming too frustrated and becoming too isolated that I eventually fuck it up and they all desert me. Doesn’t bother me much anymore – I’ve become immune to such actions. Leave me all you want, it doesn’t hurt. The open wound is still sore but the infection has cleared out and really, that’s all that matters to me.

The desk vibrates underneath me and I drop a nug and pick up my shaking phone. “Hello?” I breathe into the phone, and it’s not long before I hear Dustin babbling on the other end, his words all jumbled and his voice slurred. I sigh. “Dustin, calm the fuck down. What’s up?”

“Wardo, Wardo, you gotta get down here. This place is fucking thriving and you’re gonna make so much if you just come down here!” he explains, and I hear the thumping beat behind him and the giggles and screaming. I pinch the bridge of my nose and shake my head.

“I dunno,” I say. “I gotta lot of stuff to do. I still have pills to bag.” Dustin screams to the crowd on the other end and I’m about to hang up when he starts babbling again. “It’s on Oak and Sunset, you can’t miss it – the house is practically vibrating with energy!” he yells, and I know that even if I say no he’s not going to give up, so I give in and tell him I’ll be there in twenty.

I stuff the inside of my jacket with an ounce of weed and pills and I shove off, knowing exactly which route to take because I’ve delivered on Oak and Sunset. And even though it’s not too long of a walk it’s long enough for my mind to start wandering to before this life, before the chemical highs and deep dark lows I’ve found myself in. So I light up a cigarette and take a long drag and let the nicotine do its thing of making my heart race so fast you would think he was walking right next to me.

The house Dustin was talking about was indeed vibrating in its foundation. The curtains were drawn aside and the amount of people shoved inside were pressing themselves against the glass window, falling over each other and spilling their drinks and they were all so wasted that it would be easy to push my way into their wallets.

Boy, my father would be proud of me.

I waltzed right in, climbing over bodies and was clapped on the back by drunk guys I had economics with. There were girls kissing girls and guys shooting pool and lots and lots of red cups being passed and sloshed around and it took me a good ten minutes until I found the right red cup that was being held by a boy with equally red hair. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were red and glassy and when I walked up to him he threw an arm around me and raised his cup to the crowd and exclaimed, “The party is here!” 

All I had to do was stand there. Dub here, four pills there, I even sold some saws. Distributing green was almost as satisfying as making it, and before long bowls were being passed around and pills were being popped and I was once again put on a pedestal as the life of the party. Which I found ironic since I fucking hated this type of scene. It reminded me of that piece of shit Parker who ruined everything.

“Wardo, you saved the night, man!” Dustin slurs, as he wraps an arm around my shoulder and takes a drag off a blunt. I give him a smirk. “Yeah, yeah,” I say. “Thanks for the invite. I made serious profit off these drunks.” Dustin laughed but it turned into a cough and soon the blunt was in my hand and I took a couple hits before I passed it to a girl wearing a two-piece bathing suit. 

“Wardo, I have a surprise for you,” Dustin says, and I know that this won’t be good. It’ll be another passed out chick with vomit in her hair or four lines of coke and I don’t want either. I just want to get back to my apartment, to get back to bagging and then fall asleep while cradling a Tuttle which I really shouldn’t drink because it was his favorite drink, but hey – a guy’s gotta get drunk somehow. 

“Dustin, please,” I say, as he tries to guide me through the throng of party-goers who were much more inebriated now then they were an hour ago. “Whatever it is, I don’t want it. Honestly, I just want to go home.” But Dustin only laughs and keeps guiding me up stairs where there’s a line waiting to go into the bathroom where there are most definitely some moans and groans escaping from underneath the doorframe. “I didn’t think he would show up,” Dustin explains, and he leads me to a closed door. “But he came not too long after you did and he’s just been waiting up here. You know he doesn’t like this kind of party shit.” 

My heart started to race and my mind flashed to his face. He couldn’t be here. He was in California. That was where he was stationed, where the company was stationed – why would he be out here? It couldn’t be him, it must be someone else. Maybe it was Chris – that would be a real surprise. Now Chris, I missed. He, on the other hand, could rot in hell with his stupid Gap hoodie and Adidas sandals. What did I care about him? 

“Be nice,” Dustin hissed into my ear, and he pushed me through and I saw the back of a curly-haired head in a dark blue sweater, a thin stream of smoke curling up from his hand where he held a short cigarette. It couldn’t be, but it had to be.

“Mark?” I whisper, and he turned around and I saw his face for the first time in two years. The same sharp lines, slightly sunken in with lack of sleep. His hair was unkempt as usual and he gave me a weak smile. He stubbed out his cigarette in a black ashtray that sat on the desk and he stood up and approached me and I didn’t know if I should punch him in the face or – 

“Wardo,” he says, and it was like I was back at Harvard in Kirkland discussing algorithms and girls. “It’s been a while.” I nodded my head. “Yeah,” I say. “It’s been a while.” He sways in his spot, looking me up and down, studying me to see how different I’ve become. My hair is a bit longer, there’s scruff around my mouth, and my eyes have sunken in, but not much has changed. The hole in my chest is no longer fresh, but it’s not like he would notice it anyway, he never did.

“You look…good,” he lies, and I break out into a laugh. He looks shocked, like he wasn’t expecting me to show any sort of out of control emotion like laughing. “Yeah right,” I snort. “I look like shit. And so do you. When did you start smoking?” There was a blush that ebbed on his pale cheeks and I almost lost it, but I held it together. Mark shrugged his shoulders. “For like, a year now,” he explains, rubbing the back of his neck. “Work gets stressful. Life gets stressful.” He gives me a smirk and I can feel my heart racing. I shake my head at him, and he looks at me curiously. “You’re not happy to see me, are you?” he questions, and I shrug my shoulders.

It’s been two years. After I stormed out of the fresh new offices of Facebook I promised myself that I would never look back. I shipped myself to Brazil where I drank my problems away, numbed myself with all sorts of drugs and dabbled into new business ventures where I would give the same to relief to people back in the States. So yeah, I wasn’t happy to see him because he made me this way. He was the reason why I was so fucked up, why I was at this piece of shit party standing across from him buzzed out of my mind and my hands trembling. Mark bit his bottom lip.

“Yeah, I guess not,” he answers. “I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t want to see me either. I kind of fucked up, didn’t I?” I laughed again, but this time it wasn’t so light-hearted. It was wild, it was angry, and I was suddenly so pissed off that my hands turned into fists. “Kind of fucked up?” I say through gritted teeth. I could feel the bone of my knuckles pulse against the skin, feel the anger I’ve had boiling inside of me for two years begin to pour out of me.

“No, Mark. It was fucked up,” I say, sneering at him. His eyes widened and he finally looked alert, like he was finally in the moment and finally understanding what was going on. Before him stood his ex-best friend, the guy who was completely in love with him and threw him to the sharks, trembling and fuming that I could hardly think straight. “You screwed me over, Mark. You fucked me out of a company that I helped create. I was the CFO and you fucked me over. You’re a piece of shit, Mark,” I spat, and Mark winced at my criticism. But he nodded his head, and he looked around the room, anywhere but at me who was staring at him like I was about to tear his flesh apart.

Often I had thought about this very encounter. Usually I was strung out when I thought about it, but always I was confident. I would stand in front of a mirror, yelling and screaming and kicking and punching, spilling my guts out to my worn out reflection, letting everything I had been bottling up spill from my mouth. Now that it was happening, I could barely form the right words to express just how much I hated him, just how much I hated myself for hating him because I didn’t want to hate him. I hated myself for still loving him, for still wishing I had said what I wanted to say before we flew out to California, and to have taken those spare, brief moments we had alone to kiss him.

Now we were alone and I was buzzed and he was biting his lower lip and opening and closing his mouth like he was trying really, really hard not to cry and I figured it’s now or never.

My fists uncurled and my hands grabbed at the collar of his hoodie and I brought his face up to mine and crashed my lips against his. Mark’s body collided against mine and he immediately responded by bringing his hands up to my face and pulling me closer, and I pushed my tongue into his mouth and tasted the cigarette smoke that hung on his tongue and I died a thousand times as I felt his fingers curl against the small of my neck and tug at the hair there.

I pushed him away, both of us panting, looking at each other like we had just seen a ghost. And in all honestly we were ghosts, former best friends who clawed each other to the bone until we were nothing but skeletons trying to forget what it was like to be alive because the memories would only hurt. Now face-to-face with the memories it was like taking a rip of hash oil, with your heart pounding and your body telling you that you’re about to die because you just can’t handle the hit.

But kissing Mark is better than getting high, better than anything I’ve ever experienced in my life. And even though that bitter hate inside of me still lives, it melts away with every touch and every whisper that Mark bestows upon me as he throws himself at me again and starts to paw at my clothes, our hands tangled in fabric and out mouths deep red from colliding.

“Don’t dwell on the past, filho,” my father would tell me. “Only you can make your future great.” I really couldn’t care if my life was piled with money or drugs or booze. I only care about having Mark in my life. And as his skin molded into my skin, I felt the wound in my chest that he had created start to patch itself up with new pink skin, trailing kisses down the stitches with apologies I had only heard in my pipe dreams.

But when you’re in love, even your best highs seem dull, because nothing else can ever compare.


End file.
